


Calamitous

by The Black Sluggard (Hazgarn)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Gen, Horror, Pre-Canon, Suicidal Thoughts, Werewolves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-03-12
Updated: 2007-03-12
Packaged: 2017-10-19 18:42:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 581
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/204044
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hazgarn/pseuds/The%20Black%20Sluggard
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU. A hunt. A mistake. A bite. Preseries.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Calamitous

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Monsters](https://archiveofourown.org/works/211943) by [The Black Sluggard (Hazgarn)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hazgarn/pseuds/The%20Black%20Sluggard). 



His vision is tunneling, either through exhaustion or blood loss. He can't tell which. It is half past three in the morning, and it feels like the night's work has spent almost of a week's share of adrenaline. He forces himself to keep his breathing even, and soon it passes. The bleached light of the florescent tube over the sink makes the cracked porcelain look as brittle as eggshells, but it's the only thing keeping him on his feet at this point.

The injury is deceptively superficial. Much of the surrounding skin is still pale causing the hair of his arm to stand out darkly, but color is starting creep back into the flesh. The edges have already begun to pucker, showing signs of healing. He milks the wound, blood dripping from the rough punctures, falling into the water in bright, blossoming shapes until the basin is stained pink. It does no good, he knows, but he grits his teeth and does it anyway.

The wound throbs with the rapid beating of his heart, but the pain helps pull his mind from the terror. He hasn't felt fear like this in years. Not in the times he's faced death, not during the hunts he was sure would be his last. Not since the night of the fire, he thinks. Not since then has he stood to lose so much... He can't ignore the voice in the back of his head screaming that it's all over.

The pistol sits on the back of the toilet where he left it, gleaming unnaturally bright. Full of silver promises. He grabs the gun, water dripping from his hands into a blood-tinted puddle on the back of the tank. The mouth of the gun is water cool against his lips, his wet fingers are slippery against the metal. He thumbs back the safety and for a moment he thinks he can do it.

The madness passes, though not the horror. He wonders if he hears the worried breathing on the other side or only imagines it. Maybe it's himself he hears, releasing a breath he didn't know he held. He slides the gun into the waistband of his jeans. It has never seemed such a heavy presence, clinging coldly to the small of his back.

He binds the wound, white gauze staining slowly dark with the taint of his blood. The last thing he does is wash the ring before slipping it back onto his finger. He turns from the sink, opening the bathroom door slowly.

"Dad?"

Dean is standing there before him. He should have guessed the boy would wake. He doesn't know he even slept at all. He can see in his eyes he's glad to have his father is home, glad to see him escape one more hunt. But his face falls when he sees John's weary expression. The pain in his eyes, the sweat and grime still covering his face. The bandage on his arm. He feels he sees his son, only nine years old, age greatly before his eyes.

"Dean..." His mouth goes dry. Through his fear, his weariness, everything, he cannot find the strength to speak. Doesn't know what to say to the boy if he could. Tears burn his eyes.

_I'll keep your boys safe, Mary, I swear. If it's the last thing I do._

He prays it won't be. Because, God help him, he can't leave them alone. And he doesn't know if he can let them go.


End file.
